You feel strange. The same way you would probably feel if an invisible hand suddenly reached out and clasped your throat. Those radio jockeys ( the ones you listen to as an afterthought) become your single source of information. Collectively, they rue the lack of fire fighting equipment in Calcutta.
People jumping off buildings. People bursting into flames. People looking on helplessly.
The firefighters arrive after 85 minutes. You do not know that yet. You read about it in tomorrow's newspapers.
Marked in beautiful bold letters are cold statistics of warm blood.
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Similarities.
And the bodies near the terrace door, all stacked on top of each other. Anushka, I agree. Scarring.